Sunday, 22 April
John decided they were staying in New Mexico that spring. He wanted to help some old friends who lived near Albuquerque. They were researching a string of bizarre deaths that seemed like they must be supernatural, but the methods and patterns didn't match those of any creature hunters knew of.
It was the end of April. The boys sat quietly in the back seat; there was only another half hour or so of driving before they would reach their motel. They had driven almost non stop from their last motel in Michigan, where Dean and John had just finished off a nest of vampires. John insisted on making good time to New Mexico. They were all really ready to finally shower and lay down.
Dean looked over at his brother. It was evening, and warm light was coming in through Sam's open window. It landed softly on his skin and bounced excitedly off his long hair; he insisted on growing it out, a decision John was not incredibly fond of. Dean had watched Sam scribble away in a small, leather bound notebook for a little over an hour.
"What are you writing about over there?" Dean asked. His voice cracked a little; he hadn't spoken in a few hours. Sam adjusted so that the contents of the notebook were even more hidden from Dean's view, not that Dean had been able to see anything before.
"Nothing," he mumbled. "Just some stuff." Dean was unsatisfied with this answer but didn't see the point of pressing the matter; when Sam didn't want to share something, it was pretty difficult to get it out of him. Dean figured he would have to rip the notebook out of Sam's hands to find out what was inside.
* . * . * . * . * . * . * . * . * . * .
John finally pulled off the highway. He took a minute to consult the back of a crumpled receipt, on which he had scribbled directions to a motel just outside of town. The friends he was visiting actually owned it, and offered to let them stay there for free. It took about ten minutes to find the place. It wasn't the fanciest of motels, but it looked structurally sound, and upon inspection of the inside of the room, it was clean. And those things alone put it a step above several other places they had stayed.
The room was pleasantly large. The door opened to a small kitchen on the left with a stove, fridge, and cabinets, and a living area on the right with a sofa, recliner, coffee table, and television. Through the living room, there was an actual bedroom with a door (a rare sight for the boys) and through the bedroom was the bathroom. There were two beds in the bedroom, so it was decided that Dean and Sam would sleep there and John would take the couch (which folded out into a bed), since he was likely to have a lot of late nights and didn't want to keep them up.
The two brothers inspected the bedroom. The first thing they noticed was a large dresser. The back of the dresser leaned against the wall between the bedroom and the living room, on the left side of the door, next to the bathroom. The beds were parallel to the bathroom, with the headboards touching an outside wall. There was a window between them covered in pale blue curtains. Each bed had a small table with a drawer next to it on the inside, and about a foot of floor space on the outside before the wall. Sam grinned and quickly claimed the bed farther from the bathroom, because it was on the side of the door without the dresser so he had more room. Dean set his stuff down at the foot of the other bed, and then they both hustled back to the living room upon hearing John call them.
"Well, we have a few things to talk about, but it can wait til tomorrow. Let's just get settled in and get some rest," sighed John, looking and sounding rather ragged. There was no protest from Dean and Sam. They went about unpacking the car and figuring out semi permanent places for things; they were going to be here several months at least, so there was no point in living out of their bags the whole time. Once everything was inside, John said, "Why don't you boys take a quick shower? I'm gonna go pick up some food, and then I want in that bathroom as soon as I get back."
"Yessir," Dean replied with a nod. Then he turned to Sam, "I'm first, squirt." Sam rolled his eyes and turned his attention to putting their clothes away in the dresser.
When Dean came out of the shower, Sam was sitting in his bed, hunched over the same notebook, but this time he was reading instead of writing.
"You reading your own work over there, Shakespeare?" Dean teased.
"I'm just, uh… proofreading," said Sam, without raising his head.
"Oh, so you're writing a story?" Dean asked. "What's it about?" He sat down on his own bed, facing Sam, and began drying his hair. Sam shrugged.
"Uh… yeah, I guess it's a story. But it's personal," he said, sounding like he was really struggling to find the right words. Dean squinted and tried to see Sam's face, get a grip on anything his expression was saying that his words were leaving out. He couldn't see through the curtain of hair, and had a feeling Sam was aware of this.
"What do you mean it's personal? You writing your autobiography or something?" Dean pressed. Sam made an irritated sound and closed the book as he sat up straight, still not looking at Dean.
"No, it's not my autobiography, asswipe. It's just personal, and I don't wanna show you. I'm just using it to… express myself, I guess. Write down things I want to get out of my head," Sam explained. Dean thought about this for a minute.
"So… a diary?"
Sam stood up in a huff and said curtly, "No. Just leave it." Sam walked to the dresser to collect a set of clean clothes.
"Oh, don't bother, Sammy," Dean said, "it gets way to steamy in there to get your clothes on without them sticking. No ventilation or whatever, you can't get dry. You'll be better off just coming out in a towel and drying out here." Dean was still in a towel himself. He was debating whether he should get dressed at all or just sleep naked; the room was kind of hot, after all. Sam shook his head.
"I'll manage," he muttered, before carrying his clothes and his book into the bathroom. Dean heard the lock click.
Sam had been a little strange the past few months. Back in October, he started wearing flannels pretty much non stop. Sam had always been one to strip down to his underwear to sleep, but he had been sleeping in the shirts too. He had also become hesitant about physical contact and didn't want to change in front of anyone; he would opt not to wash when he was unable to do so in private. Dean figured he was probably just feeling weird because he was hitting puberty, and his body was changing or whatever. But he felt a little hurt. It seemed that they were not as close as they used to be. Sam was quieter, moodier, and not very expressive or affectionate. Again, all things that could be passed off as typical teenage behavior. Dean was still having a hard time brushing it off. He missed his brother.
* . * . * . * . * . * . * . * . * . * .